Like A Bird
by jupiter1313
Summary: Booker's perspective of Elizabeth in the immediate aftermath of Daisy Fitzroy's death.


To his left, down below, he could hear the sounds of distant gunfire and the screaming, frenzied chant of the Vox. It reminded him a little of the strikers from back in his days in New York. Once in a while despite the best efforts of management and the Pinkertons, a strike would get out of hand, the group-think of the mob would throw away any ideas of self-preservation and fear in its members and for a few hours blood would gush down the streets and color the looms and textiles of the factories. There were always more strikers than Pinkertons, but that was hardly a problem most days. Trouble only came when the workers forgot themselves, when they stopped caring about living and dying, and really became the mobs the papers always made them out to be. There was little Booker could do on those days but to keep killing until he found a way out of the madness. What kept the Pinkertons strong he realized after a few days on the job, what let them suppress the strikers with such efficiency and ruthlessness, was the unspoken knowledge among the strikers that the continuation of their lives was something of a lucky gift from the moment Booker and the rest walked onto the scene. He'd bash in the skulls of every one of them that didn't throw themselves on the ground crying for mercy. Sometimes for good measure he'd hit those ones too. As long as that mattered, they'd see him for the monster he was, and that fear was all the power he needed. He'd spent more nights than he could count lapping up the last drops of whiskey from the bottle, like a dog dying of thirst, just trying to forget those moments. To forget the look in the faces of the men whose skulls he'd beaten with their own hammers. Just...to forget.

Booker didn't think there was enough whiskey in the world however to forget the sight before him. It made him want to vomit the way a hangover never had. There was something sick, something perverted and twisted to the sight of her now, that just made the bile rise. She'd been so...so clean before. When he'd first met Elizabeth, she reminded him in a lot of ways of a little girl. She might have the body of a young lady, and the mind of a much older woman, but in so many ways she was just so young. Taking a bite of cotton candy the first time she'd tried it so many weeks ago, he'd had to suppress the urge to smirk a bit at how her eyes lit up. The way they'd shined just then, as irrational as it was, at that moment if she'd asked him to buy every damn bag of cotton candy the vender had in stock he'd have done it and done it gladly. Just to keep that look in her eyes. It soothed him he realized in a way he didn't quite understand. Wiping the blood from his nose, he forced himself to look down for a moment and clear his head. The chanting of the Vox was louder now: they were getting closer.

But she was like that with most things he'd come to understand. Every door hid something magic behind it for her. Something she'd never seen before, never dreamed of seeing before outside of a book. During the rare moments of peace they'd had in Colombia she loved nothing more than to window shop. To stare at everything and anything all at once. To dream of what things did, of how they worked, of what wonders they were capable of. At times he'd have to jog just to keep up with her as she darted from shop window to shop window, just like the little bird she wore around her neck.

Compared to those days, her eyes looked dead right now. He had to look away, to the side, to anywhere else. Fink's boy had crawled into the corner of the room by now, curled up into a little ball, and was shivering violently. The child sniffled in his corner and let out a little violent sob. He was most likely traumatized beyond repair by this point. He probably kill somebody some day, Booker thought grimly. Kids like that always do.

Elizabeth made this odd sound in the back of her throat and his eyes darted back to hers, even though he wanted nothing more than to look away again, to just pretend she was still that same girl who'd thrown that book at him and called him a rogue. There was blood all over her. He remembered the first time he'd killed someone back in the early hours of Wounded Knee, he'd been amazed and sickened by just how much blood spurted out of a body if you cut it. He remembered how the Indian was still leaking blood long after he'd finished throwing up behind a tree and gotten back on his horse. Some days he had nightmares of being back at that place. When he did it was always the same: it was always raining, there was always a thunderstorm which roared like some violent beast wishing for the end of the world, and the Indian was always still there, still bleeding. Those nightmares always ended the same way too, with him drowning in the blood and the rain as it flooded the land. Would Elizabeth have nightmares like that now as well? He didn't want to know.

Hesitating, he lifted a hand to her shoulder, "Elizabeth..." but she shrugged him off. She was trembling all over now and the little sounds she was making against her will made it fairly clear she was trying to hold back tears. Grabbing at her arms to hug herself, she looked down and almost violently shoved her hands away from her own clothes at the sight of them, as if she had forgotten the blood. But she'd never forget he feared. Before he could get out another word she'd darted away.

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth wait!" He yelled as loudly as he dared, fearing the thought of drawing more Vox towards their position. He didn't want her to see anyone else die right now. "Elizabeth I know what this feels like. Just...just listen to me okay?"

She never stopped running. He followed behind all the way to the airship, uselessly yelling out from time to time, realizing at some level how for the first time in a few weeks now, the urge to drown himself in drink was just overpowering. Her eyes looked as dead as the Indian's, looked as dead as baby bird's caught in a trap in the sky. His arms trembled a bit, the gun in them shaking as he ran. God he needed a drink, God he needed a drink...


End file.
